Harakiri
by TeaC0sy
Summary: -'He felt the familiar surge of power as the sword seemed to quiver in his grip. It knows. A wry smile of sorts shaped his lips.'- Yoshimitsu before his final Harakiri.


_(May _seem _kind of OOC, but Yoshi can't really be that mental all the time. Here he is more leader-of-the-Manji Yoshi.)_

**_Harakiri_**

Night.

The air was cool, the slightest of winds causing loose leaves on trees to quiver and fall to the ground. Four men stood around a seated fifth, who, at least compared to the others, seemed at peace. Their loose clothing fluttered in the breeze. A lengthy sword glinted, elevated on a platform on the ground perhaps a foot away from the seated man. A kind of disconcerting power seemed to emanate from it, and the four men on their feet glanced at it warily, often. A contrasting, calmer aura was given off by the man sitting next to it, as if trying to silence its negativity, and prolong the current tranquillity for just that much longer.

Fire. Small and controlled, it burned about five metres away from the group. Its soft crackling and the gentle rustling of leaves were more or less the only sound to be heard for some time.

Yoshimitsu shifted his seating position slightly, and looked brightly up at his grim-faced followers. "The air is certainly gloomy here," he observed. His tone of voice was collected and at peace, as if the event to come was a usual occurrence.

"If anything else was possible..." began the sullen voice of a man wearing his black hair in a long tail. It made a gentle _swoosh_ sound as he shook his head. "It is the only honourable action left - for yourself and for the remaining clan members. Not, of course, that there is a significant number left." He sighed. After a moment's silence he continued with a pained voice, despite how clear it was he was not feeling much discomfort. "It is manifest that there is little point in remaining like this. Even the _sword_, leader, seems as if it is rejecting..." Another shake of the head, and more talk. "Think of that time, for example; almost all the men of that tribe were captured and killed by the oppressors. Children starved to death. Women joined them or vanished in grief. We were of no help. We _could not_ help. The - their entire tribe in shambles, and that was not the first, and as we fear it will not be the last -"

"We've been over this," Yoshimitsu voiced, interrupting his peer. "I understand, otherwise I would not be here. You need not trouble yourself." He took a sweeping glance at the four men - half of the remaining clan members.

Ichirou, the speaker, nodded. "This way, you will leave with due honour."

"That is the idea."

Silence. A mix of regret, loyalty, grief and apprehension hung heavy over their heads. Each standing man was still, daring each other to break the quiet, and yet desperately wanting to do so themselves. The wind seemed to have stopped blowing for the moment. The only sound was that of the slowly burning embers nearby, until one of the figures stepped forward to speak.

"Leader!" The pained voice belonged to Taka, youngest of the group present, and of what was left of the clan. "S-sir..."

Ichirou opened his mouth to berate him but stopped as soon as Yoshimitsu raised his hand. He lowered his dark eyes, fixing them firmly on the ground.

Yoshimitsu turned his gaze onto Taka. Average height and skinny, with a slight build thanks to the years of training he provided. Yoshimitsu fought a smile as the memory of finding him sitting outside the ruins of his old home, hungry and orphaned at a tender seven years played through his mind. So eager, so earnest. "I know you feel you need to speak, but -"

Taka had suddenly dropped to the ground in a bow. The other three men looked torn between flinching with shame and imitating him. Shakily, the boy spoke, his voice low and close to breaking, muffled by the ground. "Leader... I... do not wish for this to... _surely _there is..." he trailed off, leaving his sentence open in the air. The older men suspected tears were escaping out of his eyes and onto the earth.

With his usual soft flair of leadership - and almost father-like - Yoshimitsu spoke again. "Taka, you know there is no other way. You know very well. You have been part of the clan for half of your life now, have you not?"

"They were the best... years of my life, sir... and after tonight happens, I'm, I'm afraid of what ..." Trembling with his words, he let out a highly audible sniff.

"_Enough_, Taka," hissed Ichirou, eyes still on the ground in front of him. "The decision has been made." The boy hushed, and with a deep inhale, let out a low apology.

"Rise, now," Yoshimitsu compelled. He watched the youth obey skittishly. Realising he had never before felt this serene, he echoed Ichirou's words. "The decision has been made. The Manji clan will cease tonight." Taka raised his eyes, and they made contact with his leader's. "You have grown into a man before our eyes. You have matured into a warrior by my own side. One day you will, too, become a leader of your own, for -"

Taka started. "Sir, _please_..." He tried to speak more, but his feeble words were drowned out by his leader's.

"- for I have faith in you. Your skill and intentions will take you far... you almost remind me of myself..."

Taka hurriedly wiped his eyes with his sleeve. With another heavy inhale, he straightened his back. "Sir." He bowed his head. The three other men exchanged glances, and followed suit, one by one.

Yoshimitsu lowered his head in return, a peaceful expression gracing his features. Now for his sword. His _trusty _sword. Stretching out his left arm, the one given to him by Boskonovitch all those years ago, he curled his fingers around the handle. Cold and smooth, it fit as perfect as ever. He brought it in front of him, hearing the soft _whoosh_ as it moved through the air, and admired its glow for the final time. He felt the familiar surge of power as the sword seemed to quiver in his grip. _It knows._ A wry smile of sorts shaped his lips. The four men looked on as the sword and his left abdomen made contact. The sword, while held with a firm grasp, tremored of its own accord in his hand as it was forced rightward, and Yoshimitsu performed his final Harakiri.

* * *

_Harakiri: Yoshimitsu's infamous 'suicide' move, name coming from the real act of suicide people (fundamentally Samurai, many years ago) would perform for whichever reason. _

_Reviews appreciated. :)_


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